A chicken-fried-steak of Interstate 84 proportions
Thursday, March 13, 2008 1:43 PM PDT
This tale involves drugs, a truck stop and a fun girl named Roka.
The Hunter was headed home on Interstate 84 from a road trip. It was late afternoon and he was truck-driver hungry. He had been tempted before to stop at the North Powder Café, but the timing had never been right. This time it was.
Located about twenty miles northwest of Baker City (exit 285), there are always trucks parked there, which used to be a good sign. Who knows now? The inside is neat, clean, and quite cute, including freshly cut flowers on the tables. At a truck stop?
But, it isn’t just a truck stop. It is also the local restaurant — hence the flowers.
The specials board was advertising nachos or chicken quesadillas at $7.95, both got a quick nope.
The menu is quite extensive, with lots of familiar choices in the breakfast, lunch, and dinner catagories.
So, the Hunter asked the happy waitress, Roka, for a suggestion.
“Lots of people like the chicken-fried steak,” she said, “And, I’ve been to the dentist today and I’m on painkillers, so don’t mind me.”
The Hunter went with her suggestion, but chose the brown gravy rather than the white gravy she suggested.
“Soup or salad? she asked, adding, “The soup is homemade turkey vegetable with lots of tomatoes.”
Tomatoes in soup are usually a deal killer for the Hunter, so he went with a salad.
“Home-made mashed potatoes or french fries?
“Mashed.”
She flitted away, still managing to have lively and interesting conversations with diners at three other tables.
Returning quickly, she presented a bowl of soup.
“Um, I think I ordered a salad,” the Hunter said, meekly.
“Oh, right,” leaving the soup and heading back to the kitchen.
She soon returned with the salad, saying, “Eat the soup, too, it’ll be good for you.”
The salad was pretty decent with plenty of goodies, but the soup was excellent. Well worth a stop sometime for just a quick bowl.
Here came dinner. The cube steak, covering one whole plate, was nicely breaded and fried and topped with gravy. Another platter had a mountain of fries, a dish of mixed vegetables and a roll.
“Um, I think I ordered mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, right,” she said, leaving the fries.
Gordon, the cook, hollered from the kitchen to the Hunter, “White or brown gravy? He didn’t appear to have been to the dentist that day.
She asked where the Hunter was from, and he told her Ontario.
“Oh, that’s such a beautiful drive.” she gushed.
The mashed potatoes were good, nice and lumpy, but the white gravy wasn’t as good as the brown. The chicken-fried steak was also a winner. Everything else was good, not spectacular, but good.
Although the Hunter was full, only managing half the feast Roka presented, he was tempted by the appetizing looking pies.
Owner, Vickie Day’s mother prepares them twice a week. Somehow he didn’t trust the current delivery system.
The drive home was beautiful, even without a trip to the dentist that morning.
